Coeur de Feu
by gallifreyedjeans
Summary: And here she sits, immediate family intact, named for a war she barely understands.


**I have kind of a fascination with Victoire Weasley. Not sure if I'll do more with this, but it's been sitting on my computer for a couple weeks now, so I'd love any feedback :)**

The salt air smells like home. She's had a mixed relationship with it all her life, hating the way it tangled her blonde hair but adoring the way she could taste the weather changing on her tongue. In the summer, she did cartwheels in the sand, bare feet twirling gracefully through the air with a flourish that Dominique could never quite manage to emulate. As the leaves on the trees began turning to a warm orange, she began excitedly preparing for winter, when icicles would freeze under the gables of Shell Cottage and the sky would turn a chilly gray.

It's funny, she thinks from her perch on top of the roof, arms folded determinedly on top of her knees, which are pulled up to her chin. You could hope and dream and wait about leaving home without ever thinking about the actual logistics of it at all. Without thinking about the fact that you would actually be _leaving home_.

The envelope in her hands is thin paper, but it may as well have weighed a hundred pounds. She bites her lip. All across Britain, children are probably beside themselves with glee, marking off days on the calendar and shoving books and robes and supplies into their trunks and poring over their copies of _Hogwarts, A History_. Some might even be excited to leave behind the worlds they know, the houses in which they were raised.

Victoire places a protective hand on the shingles beneath her bare feet. The surface feels like a second skin.

She was born in this house; it was quite literally the first place she had ever known. She had learned to walk on the kitchen floor, much earlier than she probably should have, shocking her parents. Her father had taught her to swim in the ocean, letting go of her before she was ready and causing her to spit up saltwater, laughing - she hadn't been scared. Her mother had been tucking her into bed in the tiny room at the top of the staircase for as long as she can remember, folding the quilt impeccably, singing to her softly in French. She remembers the day Domi moved into her room. She had sat on her bed with her back against the wall, folding her arms. Her parents had noticed, of course, because they noticed everything, and had given her a long talk about loving your siblings unconditionally - Daddy had launched into an anecdote about sharing a room with Uncle Charlie for years and "you had better get used to it, sweetheart, because you'll be bunking up with four other girls when you get to Hogwarts!" Eventually, she'd learned to like sharing her space with Domi, although she never admits to it. Their room is cozy and small and warm, just the way they both like it.

She knows she's lucky beyond words… no one ever has to tell her. A mother and a father and a sister and a brother, all healthy and happy, beautiful and funny and quirky and wonderful. And the sheer multitude of cousins, seemingly a new one every year, climbing all over her and shrieking, demanding her attention. Aunts and uncles who dote on her, bringing her books and presents and hugging her tightly. Sometimes she thinks it a cruelty that they, her parents and their siblings and friends, had to suffer so terribly and deeply while she floated along in nonexistence. It wasn't until the dust had settled, the dead had been buried, the wreckage had been rebuilt, that she had come onto the scene on a warm May morning exactly one year after their victory had been claimed.

It took her years to understand the world into which she had been born, but with age, she pieced it together. Mum found her one night when she was six, sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet and ripping through box after box of photographs. Tears were streaming down her face.

"Oh, _ma cherie_," her mother had sighed, sitting down next to her.

"Who is this?" Victoire had asked, voice trembling. She already knew the answer.

Mum had hesitated. "Her name is… her name was Nymphadora Tonks. Teddy's _maman_. _Et la…_" she reached over her daughter, producing another photo from the box and holding it up. "_Son papa. _Remus Lupin."

She knew. It was obvious: Teddy Lupin was one of her most frequent playmates by that age and she knew every feature of his face. That woman in the photo… that was Teddy's nose, those were his sparkling eyes. The man smiled with the same hesitant grace as Teddy. His parents… casualties of war, friends of her parents, people she should have met but never would.

"They're dead," Victoire had cried, and her mother had wrapped her in a tight embrace like she could keep the pain and fear away. Even at only six, she could feel how she was being kept at a distance from the world, not permitted to feel. They had fought so hard and lost so much; every photo in the boxes, which still sit in her living room today, was a testament to a life cut short. Teddy, a war orphan who would never know his parents. The thought was almost more than she could bear.

The years slid by and she learned the full story, mostly from Daddy and Uncle Ron. Uncle Harry had been most centrally involved, of course, but he didn't often want to talk about it. At eleven, she can finally appreciate her good fortune, her beautiful life.

And here she sits, immediate family intact, named for a war she barely understands.


End file.
